In the Early War
by smarscosi
Summary: Filling the gaps between the Garden Party and Branson's confession in York.
1. Chapter 1

As Sybil readied for bed that night, she was of two minds, worried so worried, about what war would mean, and yet giddy with excitement over the events of the garden party itself. Gwen had gotten the job! She was going to be a secretary! And Branson. Branson had grabbed her hand, squeezed her fingers tight, and what was he going to say before Mrs. Hughes interrupted them? As the days passed, she received one letter after another from friends and former suitors announcing their enlistment and thought less of everything that happened before England went to war. In the early months, and like so many others, she believed the war would not, could not last more than a few months. Her father voiced this belief often, as he saw off the sons of friends and acquaintances, not least when Matthew enlisted.

Branson had laughed the first time she expressed this aloud to him, musing late one fall afternoon that she was hoping the war would end by Christmas, that Matthew would be home, that there would be Christmas crackers and puddings and even a ball to celebrate. He had hated to laugh; she was so earnest, so hopeful that afternoon, but to let her believe in this fantasy any longer…no, he could not do that. She had been angry with him and had not spoken to him for nearly a week when she decided she was being foolish. For one, she was lonely now that Gwen had left, moreso since Mary and Edith had both seemed distracted, not so much by the war, but as if each had retreated into herself, nursing untold wounds. However much he had hurt her feelings, Branson was her friend, and the only friend she had at or near Downton these days. The idea had also grown in her mind that Branson might actually know more about this war than she did and, just as he had opened the door for her to the women's right movement, he might now open the door for her to the war, the real war and not that one that lived in her imagination.

She had wandered to the garage after breakfast and, not finding Branson, returned with a note to leave on the car asking him to bring it round after lunch for a foray into Ripon. The note, written on crisp paper in Sybil's florid hand, was waiting for him when he returned from the servant's hall, where he'd needed Anna's help finding the matching green thread to mend his vest. Her note was a salve for his spirit, and he whistled happily as he shined the old Renault and tinkered with its engine.

It was an unusually fine day for late November and Sybil had no trouble obtaining permission to go into town. Officially her purpose was to mail several packages to the men she already knew at the front and to order a hat to wear at Christmas services. She also planned to purchase and mail an early Christmas present to Gwen. More importantly, she needed to ask Branson what he knew about the war, to convince him to share with her whatever news he heard, and to become more informed generally. If this was going to be a long war, it wouldn't do to be ignorant of it.

"Branson?" she asked, as the gravel of the long drive crunched under the tires.

"Yes, milady?"

"You don't think the war will be over soon." It was a statement, not a question.

"No, milady."

"Tell me why not."

By now he was used to, looked forward to, her conversation with him as he drove, but he was totally unprepared for this line of questioning. He knew Lord Grantham's views on the war and felt unprepared to contradict the man, yet he could not lie to Sybil.

"Branson?"

He cleared his throat. "Milady, it's a big war. Germany, France, Russia, and the Empires – British, Austro-Hungarian, and just last month the Ottoman Empire. British troops on the way to Africa. Australian troops on the way to Egypt. A lot of men have died already. Our side isn't going to agree to a treaty and neither is theirs."

She was silent for a minute and when she spoke again it was in a quiet tone that he hadn't heard before, "I didn't know about the Ottomans. Do you think me very foolish?"

"No, milady, not at all. I shouldn't expect it's the type of thing your father would discuss at dinner."

"Branson, I'd like to ask you to do something for me. When you hear news of the war, you must share it with me. I know you read the papers, and you must hear news from the front occasionally, from letters, or men in town back on leave."

He nodded slowly. Yes, if only she knew. He did know men at the front, Irish men whom he'd wished hadn't signed on to fight for the British, whose enlistment could only prolong the Irish servitude. Of course, there was also the footman from his last job, and Englishman who'd always been seeking the next great adventure – the reason the man had been in Ireland – and whose current adventure placed him somewhere in France. And Thomas, whose letters to O'Brien the woman sometimes shared with him, probably for lack of anyone else downstairs with whom she was even moderately friendly. He contemplated for a moment sharing their contents with Sybil, but quickly decided no woman, Sybil or no, needed to hear even a partial telling of the horrors Thomas had alluded to recently.

"Yes, milady, I shall be happy to keep you informed about the war," Branson said as they neared their destination.

The return trip was quiet, each of them mulling over what they had learned: Sybil, that the war was far more complicated than she had known, and Branson, that Sybil was perhaps more complicated than he had known. Women's rights, the harem pants, helping Gwen find a job as a secretary, all had surprised him, but he had still been unprepared for her wanting to know, really know about the war.

As he slowed in front of the house she said, "I mean it, Branson, I'm counting on you. I'll stop into the garage or arrange for trips into town, but you must tell me more about the war."


	2. Chapter 2

The first Christmas season of the war was one of false cheer, one short, dark day giving way to the next. The days between Sybil and Gwen's correspondence lengthened and Sybil realized how truly envious she was of Gwen's new life. Gwen had a job, a purpose each morning when she awoke and tasks to accomplish each day. Sybil had none of these and could scarcely imagine a life in which such purpose would be possible.

In the past she might have distracted herself with a visit with friends, but such entertaining was increasingly viewed as gauche; certainly no one had gotten up a hunting party this year and even the servant's ball had been a somber affair. Already two friends had been killed in France and a third badly wounded. In past years the ball had been the capstone to an entire festive season but this year it seemed to stand alone. William had tried especially hard to cheer her and her sisters and it had worked that evening, but now this cheer had worn thin and Sybil debated how best to cheer herself. The day was too wet to ride, a visit to Ripon for a new frock or even hat was out of the question, and she felt she had read every book of interest in her father's library. She settled on a visit to the garage to try to coax a story or two out of Branson.

The deeper into darkness and war the world around her plunged, the more she enjoyed Branson's company. This past Christmas had been the first that he'd been unable to return home during the Christmas season and, perhaps missing home and Ireland, he had begun to tell her a bit more about this Irish life. As Branson shared more of his life – the passel of siblings, an overworked and widowed mother, the sounds and even smells of life in Dublin – she liked him more and more. He often wore a mischievous grin as he recounted this life, his eyes would sparkle, and his brogue would deepen until she found herself listening as much to how he spoke as what he said. She could not know, of course, the darker parts of the story that he did not tell – the accident on the docks that had left his mother a widow, and the constant, and growing, tensions with the English, for example. She did know, though, that a dearer friend she did not have, and even if Branson would think her foolish for envying Gwen, he would at least listen to what was on her mind.

"Branson?" Sybil asked as she crossed the threshold into the garage.

"I'm here, milady," came a muffled reply from under the car. A minute later he slid out and appeared before her, carefully wiping the grease from his fingers.

"Just working a bit on the engine this morning. How can I help you?"

"Branson, I want to tell you something, and even if you think me very foolish, please don't laugh at me."

"I'd never laugh at you, milady. Now what's on your mind?"

Tentatively Sybil began telling him how she envied Gwen for her newfound sense of purpose. "I fear I shall never have such purpose, Branson, nor anything very useful to do with my life at all. It all feels so very hopeless, especially with the war."

He did not laugh, but looked at her very intently, and as she realized he was taking her seriously, she continued with more and more confidence, "…I don't know if I'd like to be a secretary, or to have any other job, for that matter, but I should like the opportunity to find out for myself. Is that very wrong of me?"

Of all the ideas that might have been on Sybil's mind, and that she might have wanted to discuss with him, Branson had never imagined that wanting to join the working class might be among them. This was a more shocking turn of conversation than last fall when she'd asked him about the war, and as her eyes bore into him, waiting to learn if he felt it very wrong of her to want to a job, or at least the freedom to discover if she wanted a job, he realized he must weigh his response very carefully. He remembered Anna saying at dinner one night how she often felt a part of her job was to dispense advice. She had commented that it was strange to dispense advice in private, and have it taken so seriously, to a class of people that, in public, possessed all the answers and wanted to tell their class what to do and how to live. How strange that he, too, now was being called upon to dispense advice to Lady Sybil.

"Milady," he began thoughtfully, "it's never wrong to want opportunity. If you want it badly enough, you'll figure out how to get it, just the same as you figured out how to get Gwen a job. Listen to your heart and the rest will follow."

He was rewarded for his efforts with a broad smile. Perhaps he wasn't merely offering the advice as part of his employment, he thought, but as a friend. After all, hadn't he done the same thing with his sisters for many years?

"Thank you, Branson," she said, "I knew I could count on you. You're the only person who is always completely honest with me and I admire you for that."

He lowered his head, briefly acknowledging her statement, unsure of how else to react. It was then that he remembered what he'd wanted to tell her – that three of the men who'd been involved in the Archduke's assassination had been hanged last week, a development that did nothing for the war they had caused, but which was in keeping with his promise to keep her informed.

"But not the actual murderer? The man who is most responsible for this war, this madness? Why ever didn't they hang him as well?" Sybil asked incredulously upon learning that, while three men had been hanged, Gavrilo Princip had escaped this fate.

"He was too young, milady; he was under 20 years old. The courts ruled he can be imprisoned for what he's done, but not hanged."

"It just doesn't seem right, Branson."

She fixed him with a look that told him, instinctively, that her next question would be whether he agreed with the courts, but before she could ask anything, they were interrupted by Anna's voice, calling for Lady Sybil. Sybil just managed to slide into the car, out of view, and give a furious shake of the head in Branson's direction – she did _not_ want to be found out – before Anna entered the garage.

"Lady Sybil? Branson have you seen Lady Sybil this morning?"

"No, Anna, I've not seen her."

The look Anna gave him strongly suggested she did not believe him. Suspicion clouded her eyes for a moment before she asked him that, if he should see Lady Sybil, he should let her know she was wanted by her mother and soon, before turning on her heels. He liked Anna, truly, and felt ashamed for lying to her, but there was no misinterpreting that Lady Sybil did not wish Anna to know she was spending her morning in the garage. As Anna's footfalls grew more distant, Sybil reappeared from the car, a bit sheepish, though grinning like a small child who knows she's been naughty, but also knows she's gotten away with it.

"Thank you, Branson. I guess I had better see what mama wants. Before I go, I should tell you that I think I will be needing to make a trip into Ripon later this week."

"I'll be here, milady, just let me know when you need the car and I'll bring it around."

As Lady Sybil hurried toward the house and he slid back under the car to finish his work on the engine, Branson couldn't help but think, again, how different Lady Sybil was from the other aristocrats he had known. If he was honest with himself, he would admit that he even considered her a friend, and he'd never have believed he could be friends with one of them. An English aristocrat? Never. Perhaps he had as much to learn as he used to think Lady Sybil did.


	3. Chapter 3

Slowly, the shorter days of the dark season lengthened, the watery winter light grew stronger and brighter, roses and daffodils erupted in a riot of color, birdsong returned, and the first spring of the war was born. The fine weather was a blessing that allowed all three sisters to ride regularly, enjoy picnic luncheons on the lawn, and read their novels in the shade of the great trees that grew up around Downton Abbey. Sybil felt it all so incongruous. Here she was, luxuriating in the nicest spring she could remember, happily riding her favorite mare or losing herself deep in a novel, while in France and – according to Branson – more and more in Africa, Egypt, and many other places, great numbers of men died.

As the weather improved she made fewer trips into town and spent less time in the garage, but she still tried to have a proper conversation with him at least once a week. As the war deepened, and as her knowledge of it improved, he had become increasingly forthcoming with her, sharing what he heard of the Western Front and also of the unfolding campaign in the Dardanelles**.** Last week he found and purchased a map as a surprise for Sybil. With the map he could point to each of the places they discussed, sometimes marking places one or the other of them knew a friend or acquaintance to be posted. It wasn't that Sybil didn't know her geography, but she didn't know it in this context, and not when so many of the battles had multiple names. She had wanted to know, for example, why Gallipoli and the Dardanelles were one and the same, a question Branson could not answer.

The war had distracted everyone, not least Robert. Recently he had agreed for Branson to give driving lessons to Lady Edith and each of the sisters seemed to have a greater freedom of movement than they were allowed before the war. Lady Sybil's visits to the garage were just one sign of the less rigid ways of the house. Only yesterday Anna had informed him that Lady Sybil had planned an "adventure" for herself for the following day and would be wanting the car brought around immediately following breakfast. Lord Grantham himself had approved the plan, thinking his youngest daughter's proposal to find, collect, and catalog wildflowers in the Yorkshire countryside might be just the type of distraction she could use. Anna's words had been entirely neutral, but something about the way she looked at him while she spoke told him that Mrs. Hughes wasn't the only member of the staff concerned about his relationship with Lady Sybil.

"Do be careful, Branson," she had finished, kindly, before she left, and he knew she was not speaking to his skill as a driver.

That night he had slept restlessly, turning over in his mind what this adventure might be. Why had Lady Sybil said nothing of this to him herself? And collecting wildflowers certainly didn't sound like the way the Lady Sybil he knew would choose to pass the afternoon. It would all be clear soon enough, he figured, fighting for sleep.

As he pulled the car in front of the house, Lady Sybil and William were waiting for him. William held a large picnic hamper and an ever larger basket for, Branson could only imagine, the wildflowers Lady Sybil intended to collect. What had come over her? Loading the hamper and basket into the car, William also handed a pair of pruning shears to Branson, apologizing for their size. Lady Sybil had been adamant the gardener not know of her adventure, Lord Grantham had agreed, and so William had retrieved the older, larger pair from the shed. Yes, this would be quite an adventure indeed.

The car had not left the driveway before Sybil instructed Branson on the day. There would be a brief stop in Ripon to pick up a few things for Mary before they would be enjoying a nature walk and picnic, along with their wildflower collection.

"I just needed to get away from everyone for a bit, to clear my head. When I was a little girl, I loved to collect baskets of wildflowers and then I'd make little rings or necklaces or just a nice bouquet. So, of course when I suggested it, Papa agreed. And since I also wanted to be able to talk to you without Mama or Anna or anyone else looking for me, I suggested to Papa that the best flowers were a bit of a ways from Ripon. I suggested taking Dragon and the cart, but I knew Papa would say to have you drive me in the car. So. I want to know more about Gallipoli and the other battles you mentioned last. I hope you've brought the map. You don't mind terribly, do you?"

It had all come out in a rush and as Sybil waited for an answer Branson was not only pleased with himself for remembering to grab the map, but couldn't help thinking, "Mind? Mind? Of course I don't mind. A day with Lady Sybil and away from the wary eyes of Anna and Mrs. Hughes?" He couldn't have asked for a better way to spend the day.

Instead, he responded, "No, milady, I don't mind at all. And I have brought the map, along with a recent paper and a letter I received from a friend at the front. I thought you might like to see both."

He could feel her beaming from behind him and began to softly whistle as he drove. Before long, their errands in Ripon dispensed with, they arrived at the appointed spot. As Branson moved to unload the picnic hamper, Sybil instructed him to leave it be; they would walk first, then return to the car for the hamper – and the basket. He shrugged, but did not ask any questions.

As they followed the footpath into the woods, he noticed that while any number of trees shared this piece of land, few wildflowers grew. It was no wonder she'd instructed him to leave the basket. As they walked, Sybil in the lead and Branson a pace or two behind, Sybil began to point out the different trees and, more impressively, the birds that inhabited this woods.

"You seem to know a lot about nature, milady," Branson commented as they walked along.

They were not hurrying, but this was not the slow amble he had anticipated; Branson was impressed with her stamina as she quickened her pace and effortlessly navigated fallen branches and brambles.

"I wanted to go to school, to a real school, with other children, Branson. Mary and Edith and I always had governesses and tutors, but never a proper schoolroom. Sometimes, when I couldn't pay attention any longer, the tutor would bring me to the woods and teach me the names of each tree, flower, bird, and animal we encountered. He would then tell me how lucky I was because children in school didn't get to take such excursions, but I always knew he was only trying to make me feel better. I still wish I had gotten to go to school."

Branson was silent contemplating this. Even as his friendship with Lady Sybil had deepened and she shared more of her dreams and disappointments, he still had to remind himself that somedays being an aristocrat wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

"It's funny how we always want what we can't have, isn't it?" he asked after a moment. "When I was a lad in school, of course I wanted nothing but to run free. What was the sense in all this learning? I figured I'd work on the docks, like my father. I needn't to go to school to do that."

"What happened?" Sybil asked.

"One day they were unloading a ship and there was an accident. He never came home, except in a coffin. My mother went to work the next day and I left school when the term was up. As soon as I could never go back, why that was when I wanted nothing more. I spent my days learning to drive - my mother said no son of her would work on the docks after what happened to my father - and my nights reading and writing. I could have been a good student after that."

He hadn't meant to tell her these things, but as soon as he had spoken them it was as though a weight had been lifted from his chest. She had befriended him without knowing him and now that they were friends it seemed only fair to share his secrets with her as she did with him. The whole time he was speaking he had forgotten she was his employer's daughter, but thinking about that now he grew self-conscious. They continued in silence, Sybil absorbing Branson's painful past.

Sybil seemed not to mind the silence and after a few minutes her reminiscences as though this conversation were completely naturally. From time to time she looked back over her shoulder to make sure he was close behind.

"Mama says that in America all of the children attend school, even in the rich families. Sometimes I wonder how my life would have been different if we'd lived in America instead of England."

"Have you ever visited America, milady?" Branson asked.

"Twice. Once I was quite small and don't remember it so well. The second time, 1910, I was a bit older. Oh, it was exciting. There were so many cars and this big wonderful park, Central Park, and a crush of people in every direction. The Wright brothers flew together for the first time and everyone was so excited. It was such an exciting place and everyone was so nice. Maybe after the war I'll be able to visit again."

"You won't be afraid, milady? I mean after what happened to your cousin Patrick and all?"

"Oh, Branson, don't be silly!" As she said it, she stopped and grabbed his hand, an innocent, playful gesture, friend-to-friend, but one that caused his heart to beat more rapidly all the same.

"I can't live my life being afraid. I want to travel, to see what's beyond the walls of Downton Abbey and London. I want to see the world and I want to meet the people in different countries, really meet them. I might have been afraid, before the war. But not now." She dropped his hand and pointed to a bird cherry tree just beginning to flower.

"This used to be my favorite tree when I was younger. If I felt especially naughty, when the tutor turned his back, I'd swing onto the lowest branch and start to climb. Oh, how upset he would get!"

"We have these in Ireland, milady, and my brothers and I used to climb them as well. We'd tear our trousers and my mother would have to mend them. At first she'd be angry, but by the time she was finished she'd be having a good laugh."

She laughed then, tipping her her back and letting the sounds of her amusement fill the woods.

"Let's do it, Branson, let's climb this tree."

"Milady, no! Goodness know the trouble you'll get us both. Your father has only recently stopped mentioning how he should have fired me after the count."

She contemplated this, then walked to the tree and nimbly hoisted herself onto the lowest limb. Branson was impressed; it took a certain amount of strength to execute that motion and while she was wearing her plainest day dress, he still knew the dress must have made it more difficult. Why, that was often the reason his sisters gave for not climbing alongside him and his brothers. In any case, she seemed to be enjoying herself and he allowed his mind to wander to his own childhood climbing these trees. Her voice brought him back to reality.

"Branson!" Her tone was urgent sounding and a bit worried. "Branson, I seem to be stuck. I can't get down. Will you help me?"

He had feared this.

"How can I help, milady?"

"Please climb up here and see where my dress is caught. Then uncatch it for me, please."

Although he had his doubts, he did as instructed and soon found the source of the problem: an unwieldy branch growing at an awkward angle from the larger limb she had been walking on. Having freed her dress, he hopped down from the limb, falling to the ground as the drop seemed much longer on the way down than the way up. Sybil's eyes grew large. To preserve her modesty and give Branson additional fabric to work with in freeing her dress, she had sat on the limb. Now, though, the only way down would be to push herself forward from the tree branch - and clearly it was a farther drop than she remembered. How had she done this when she was younger?

Branson saw the alarm in her eyes and tried to think what to do. If she simply pushed herself off the branch, she would most likely tumble heavily to the ground. She could try to stand back up, but she would also risk catching her dress again.

"Push yourself forward, milady, and I will catch you when you fall."

"Won't that be dangerous?"

"No, milady, you'll see. I'll catch you. I helped my sister out of a tree this way once."

Once, Branson thought, and never again. She had also been much younger than Lady Sybil was now, but what choice did they have?

Sybil did as commanded and carefully Branson caught her in his arms, taking a large step backwards as the full weight of her body landed against his chest.

"I suppose you were right," she said cheerfully. "I shan't be climbing this tree again."

"I'm glad to hear it," Branson said, trying to settle his nerves and slow his heart. True the adrenaline and exertion played a large part in his altered state, but more than anything it was the weight of her body against his that was responsible for the pounding in his chest.

They emerged from the woods then, having taken a circular path that returned them to the car.

"What next, milady?" Branson asked, eager for this adventure to continue.

She directed him carefully to the moors, an area where the wildflowers would be abundant, and as she did so, he could not help but wonder how many times she had taken a similar adventure in the past. She exuded a natural confidence that he did not often see in her when she was at home. Arriving at the spot, Sybil was pleased to see they were the only ones about, as she had hoped to share her picnic with Branson, but was prepared for the possibility of him eating in the car while she picnicked had anyone else been in the area.

Carefully he spread the blanket over the grass while she examined the contents of the hamper. Mrs. Patmore had certainly sent ample food, enough that she could share what was meant for her with Branson, rather than him having to make do with the simple sandwich that was intended for him. They ate quietly and rather quickly; after finishing their meal, Branson pulled out the map, as well as a newspaper and the letter he'd received from a friend recently. The map he spread on the blanket, but the letter and paper he offered to Lady Sybil directly. "She wanted to know about the war," he thought, "then let her read about the war."

The newspaper she dispatched fairly quickly, but she took her time with the letter. As her brow furrowed now and again he tried to picture the words she was reading. It was not an especially long letter, so he knew she must be reading it more than once.

_My dear friend,_

_My unit has now joined this vast Western Front, terrible trenches stretching for miles across a landscape of barbed wire and mud. Nothing grows here, for the men, horses, guns, and bullets have drawn the life out of every blade of grass, tree, or beast that was here before us. Our trenches are a sad affair, more mud than you can imagine, mixed with water to the ankles and rats as large as rabbits. Perhaps I should have stayed in Dublin as you said; I may have met the same wretched fate eventually, but at least I would have done so on the green hills of Ireland and not in a mud puddle in France. I might have slept better, too, for here we patrol day and night and I rarely sleep more than two or three hours at a stretch. When I do close my eyes, you can bet it's the streets of Dublin that flash through my mind. Should death find me here, I pray the same scenes will fill my last moments, for I should hate to meet my God with images of mud, guns, and wretched, tired men __in my heart and mind._ _I will close here, and remind you again you were wise not to enlist. I look forward to your news when you're able to write._

_As ever,_

_Patrick_

At last she closed finished reading and closed her eyes. Slowly and deeply she breathed in and out, once, twice, three times. When at last she opened her eyes, Branson thought they were shinier than usual, but when she spoke next it was in her usual voice.

"Is it really so bad as that, Branson?"

"I'm afraid so, milady. And perhaps worse. The papers are censored these days, and so are the letters the men send from the front. It's not going well, that's for sure."

"But this letter wasn't censored."

"Not that we can see. Which means that what Patrick has written, we can know. The worse bits the men cannot commit to paper."

"I had no idea. Especially about the men in the trenches. The mud, the rats, how awful." She shuddered as she thought of the men, waiting for the sound of a sniper's bullet or lying wounded on a stretcher as she enjoyed the Yorkshire sunshine.

For a moment Branson wondered whether he had made the correct decision by sharing the news, and especially the letter, with her. She seemed to be thinking quickly though, forming a plan as only Lady Sybil could.

"You must let me write to him, Branson, or at least to send some things for him in your next letter. I've heard that many of the men receive packages with cigarettes or chocolates or even socks. Find out what he would like and then tell me."

"Yes, milady, I'm sure he would appreciate it," Branson said, not really certain if his friend would, in fact, appreciate such a package from an English aristocrat, but willing to go along all the same.

Sybil stood up then, stretching her legs, and asked Branson to fetch the shears and basket for her wildflower collection. She cut the flowers quickly, naming each to him and as she piled them into her basket he understood how fully this wildflower collection had been only the means to an end – a day away from Downton and, he hoped, with him. Her basket full, they returned to the car where, Branson was certain now, she gripped his hand tighter than usual as he helped her into the car.

Tired and warm from the day's exertions, Sybil fought sleep at first, then allowed herself to nod off to the sound of Branson's whistling. Her mother and Carson were there to greet her when they returned. Seeing Sybil's half asleep state, and the overflowing basket of flowers, her mother remarked, "My, you've had quite the day, Sybil. I hope you didn't wear poor Branson out."

Sybil only shrugged, then gave a brief look over her shoulder to Branson, who was already closing the doors to return the car to the garage.

As he lie in bed that night, the events of the day repeating in his mind, Branson knew then that something had changed. He had always liked Lady Sybil best of all the Crawleys and since the war began and Gwen left, there was no question they had become fast friends. Yet tonight, alone in the calm of his cottage, he admitted to himself that perhaps Anna and Mrs. Hughes were right. Lady Sybil was not just a friend. He liked her more than he'd liked any girl in Ireland. Mrs. Hughes's words echoed through his mind as he finally, restlessly drifted off to sleep.

"Be careful, my lad…"


	4. Chapter 4

The summer was hotter than usual and the heat did nothing for either of their temperaments. Sybil was to spend several weeks at her aunt's London home, not a proper season as in past years, but a break from the monotony of life at Downton nonetheless. She had arranged with Anna before she left to pass letters on to Branson that Sybil would send to Anna along with Anna's own letters. Anna doubted the appropriateness of this arrangement, and having seen the way Branson's eyes lingered on Sybil these days, she wasn't sure she wanted to do this, but ultimately agreed with a simple, "Yes, milady."

Sybil and Branson had argued during their last conversation before she left, when he drove her to the station for the train to London. She had been pressuring him for weeks to allow her to write to the friend whose letter he had read. As Sybil saw it, a letter from her would be a cheerful bit of mail and she hoped to send him cigarettes or chocolates as well. Branson did not understand why she wasn't satisfied writing to her own friends, her own kind. More importantly, he determined that while his friend had signed on to fight for the British – something he himself could never do – he would not appreciate a letter from an English aristocrat who thought she knew best what he needed in the trenches.

"Really, Branson, you can be so stubborn! You saw yourself what he wrote about the conditions in the trenches. I don't see the harm in sending a package of goods that he certainly won't find in the trenches in France!"

She had rebuffed his attempts to respond to her outrage and had nearly stomped away from the car, not even allowing him to assist her from the vehicle. He had turned his attention to her trunks and to checking that the train was on schedule (the trains ran later and later these days as more of them were needed to move troops and supplies south toward the Channel and eventually on to France or beyond). The train that arrived was largely filled with men returning for a few days' leave and Sybil's eyes widened as she took in their worn and tired presence.

Had Branson waited for Sybil to climb aboard, and not just ensured that the train would depart as scheduled, he would have seen her look for him, ready with a wave, in a belated attempt to part friends, and not on the heels of a quarrel. Instead, as she looked for him from her window seat, he was already on his way back to Downton, fuming at her obstinance. And she had called him stubborn! Yet, to his everlasting consternation, he couldn't help but admire the way she stood up to him. He allowed his mind to wander to a place he tried to avoid: what she might be like as wife. Lady Sybil certainly wouldn't be one of those meek and mild women he'd seen in Dublin, duly complying with whatever demands their husbands made or agreeing, mindlessly, with their husbands' views. The Dowager Countess was a formidable woman, no doubt, and he remembered some of Thomas's comments before the war about the way Lady Grantham would stand up to his Lordship on occasion, but he felt certain that Lady Sybil was the strongest and most spirited of all the Crawley women.

Anna was surprised to receive a letter from Lady Sybil less than one week after she'd left for London. Her ladyship seemed to have little news to report. There were soldiers everywhere. The trains overflowed with them, they poured forth from the pubs at all hours of the day, and lingered at the park benches in a state of numbness, as though their bodies were in London, but their minds were still in France. Worse than the soldiers were the men who were missing an arm or leg – or two.

Anna liked Lady Sybil and was happy to hear from her, but could not help but wonder whether her own letter was secondary to the thicker envelope that bore Branson's name. She liked Branson very much and was certain that, as evidenced by the envelope before her, Lady Sybil shared at least as much blame as Branson for a relationship that Anna sensed more and more was not entirely appropriate given their stations in life. Nevertheless, if Lady Sybil wasn't aware of the boundaries, Branson should be. Anna debated whether to say anything to him when she would give him the letter tomorrow morning.

Alone after their breakfast, Anna approached Branson.

"Mr. Branson, would you like to join me for a walk this morning?"

Branson thought it a strange request, but he liked Anna and didn't have a busy morning. Robert had taken the train the London the day before to spend a long weekend at his club in the city and the women of the house were scarce in this heat.

"I'd be happy to, Anna. Shall we start now?"

"Of course."

Anna set a steady pace that reminded Branson of his walk with Lady Sybil several weeks before. He wished they hadn't argued on their way to station. They walked quietly at first; just as Branson was about to ask why she'd invited him for a walk and then not spoken a word since they set out, she turned and spoke to him.

"I've a letter for you from Lady Sybil, Mr. Branson."

Oh, good god in heaven! Before he could react, though, she continued, and as she spoke he understood fully the reason for their walk.

"…know it's not your fault…Lady Sybil…just not sure it's appropriate…Lady Sybil…post my response next week…"

He simply could not concentrate on what Anna was saying. He could grasp no more than a few words at once, but as she stood there expectantly, he realized she must have asked him a question.

"I said, Mr. Branson, that if you plan to respond to Lady Sybil, will you please give me your letter within a few days so that I may post my response next week?"

"Yes, Anna, I can do that. I will reply this evening and have my letter to you tomorrow."

As Downton hove back into view and their walk ended, Branson and Anna were each lost in their own thoughts. Anna didn't know how she had expected Branson to react to her words of caution, but she had at least expected him to listen to her. Oh well, she thought, although she would miss him if he put himself out of a job. Although Branson couldn't be certain what, exactly, Anna had said to him, it was clear that she understood he and Lady Sybil were conducting a deeper relationship than permitted and that she disapproved. But, she had offered to post a reply, so that was something.

Four pages. When Branson opened the letter, he found four pages of text written in a neat and flowing, if florid, script. Mostly she wrote about the war in London and the scores of soldiers on their way to and from the front she encountered each day. She described the wounded men who filled the trains and stations in town and the tired, drawn widows and mothers in black who filled every other space. Many young women were working as nurses now and she envied them as she had envied Gwen before them. _It would be lovely to be able to ease their suffering in some small way, _she wrote, _and to think my parents have never really approved of Cousin Isobel's work. W__hat would happen to these men if there were no women to nurse them to health or make them comfortable until the end? _She worried that she should not have come to London, that the war felt so much closer there than at Downton. She heard more and more of Gallipoli and what a terrible battle – and mistake – it was. Surely this would end Churchill's career. (This remark had especially impressed Branson, and he realized that while the war may have taken her attention away from politics, she still knew and understood a great deal more than he would have expected.) The men on the front were increasingly battling foot problems, which they called trench foot, from the standing water in the trenches. _Imagine, Branson, to have feet so wet they become numb or swollen until open sores develop and then you're lucky if they can treat you. You're lucky to walk again, lucky they didn't have to amputate, or worse. _My god, he wondered, where did she learn this stuff?

It was the last lines of her letter though that Branson read and reread and lingered over.

"_I miss our conversations, Branson, and having a friend to share these thoughts with. The war is not for ladies in London anymore than it is at Downton, although I do try to read and listen to more than a real lady should. Thank you for helping me understand the war. I should feel a real fool if I hadn't some idea of how bad it was or where these battles are. You've been a true friend and I shall look forward to seeing you again when I return from London._"

She missed him. Him, Tom Branson, chauffeur. She had finally put to paper what he had only hoped – she missed him and felt him a true friend. It was as much as he could have hoped for from her letter. He wished he could have lightened her burden, for the war clearly weighed heavily upon her. Unfortunately, he had received a letter the same day from Patrick's wife. He had been badly wounded and was being treated at a hospital in France. He would definitely lose one leg, and perhaps the other. He had asked her to write Branson, his closest friend since early early childhood. In his reply to Sybil, Branson wanted to tell Sybil what news of Patrick and felt he ought to suggest that she not send anymore letters for him. They couldn't afford – he couldn't afford – for Anna's suspicions to grow. (If only he knew the secrets Anna kept for her mistresses he mightn't have been so worried. But he didn't know, and so he closed his own letter indicating it would be the last until she returned and he met her at the station.)

Anna dutifully posted their letters the following day and was relieved when the next letter did not contain a second envelope. This letter was bleaker than the first, though; the war had claimed the life of two more friends, including the one who had been so badly injured months earlier. Having seen the wounded in London, however, Lady Sybil wrote that she wondered if the dead weren't, perhaps, luckier than the wounded. She no longer wished to remain in London, she continued, and would be returning from London early, having found the city too dispiriting in the midst of a war.

The Sybil who returned from London in August was not the same as the Sybil who had left Downton Abbey less than three weeks earlier. When she greeted Branson at the station she could manage only a wan smile, and Branson was grateful to Anna for having shared the contents of that last, gloomy letter.

"Milady," he said, with a slight bow of his head, offering a hand to help her from the train.

"Oh, Branson. I was so sorry to read what you wrote of Patrick's injuries, really, I was. This war is too terrible. Can you believe it's lasted a year and no end in sight? What shall the next year bring?"

"I'm afraid, milady, that it shall only be worse."

"But what can be worse than this?"

"More of this. More men injured or dead, fighting for honor or king and country or some other abstract idea."

"When I saw the wounded, Branson, and how they looked...well, I couldn't help but think that it might be luckier to die, to be killed cleanly and done with it, than to have to live as they live. What do you think?"

"I think I hope to never find out which would worse. Now let's get you home."

In silence they completed the rest of the trip from the train station, each bitterly contemplating the horrors of the war and the fate of those fighting it.


	5. Chapter 5

Sybil's sadness did not lift, but seemed a bit deeper to Branson each time she visited him in the garage. She rarely asked for news for the war anymore and slowly Branson developed the realization that she now knew – and had seen – more of the war than he had. He saw her name less often on the register of books that had been signed out of Lord Grantham's library, knew she rode less than had been her custom, and thought perhaps her dresses hung more loosely than they had earlier in the year. Still, he was surprised when his Lordship had approached him with a request to drive her to York for a surprise visit – of two nights, no less.

That autumn, Isobel was visiting York as part of her work with the volunteer nurses and had written to Cora that perhaps one of the girls would like to visit her there, arriving in time for luncheon on Friday and staying through breakfast Sunday morning. She even offered a room for Anna, should she also come, and quarters for Branson nearby. Cora and Robert had both noticed that, while Mary and Edith carried on much as they had before the war, their youngest daughter had been deeply affected, particularly since her truncated visit with Lady Rosamund in London over the summer. Although Isobel had suggested any of the Crawley sisters would be welcome, between the lines Cora understood that the offer applied truly to only Edith or Sybil. She raised the idea of a visit to York with Robert, who was reluctant at first – petrol was more expensive than ever and more difficult to come by these days, and of course it wasn't a particularly short distance – but agreed when Cora asked if he had a better idea for something, anything to brighten Sybil's mood. He did not.

They determined to surprise her and so Cora had replied to Isobel fixing the details of the visit. As she would only be away two nights, Cora decided Anna need not accompany Sybil; after all, they certainly wouldn't be changing for dinner. It was left to Robert to arrange the journey with Branson, whom he had never before asked to undertake such a trip, and was pleased with the young man's easy agreement. He was turning out to be quite the chauffeur, Robert thought, and would be hard to replace if he were to enlist.

When her mother told her of the arranged visit as she readied for bed the night before her departure, Sybil felt a stab of genuine happiness she had not known for many months. Not only would she get to spend several hours in Branson's company, but she looked forward to seeing Cousin Isobel. Sybil had always like Cousin Isobel, even if the rest of her family had been slower to accept her and even, Sybil felt, looked down upon her. Sybil, on the other hand, admired Isobel's strength after the death of her husband and particularly her work as a nurse. Why, it was her own medical knowledge that had saved the life of Mr. Drake shortly after arriving at Downton! Sybil really could not understand why the others felt anything other than admiration toward her and inwardly cringed whenever she heard Mary or her grandmother impugn Isobel's middle class breeding. It would be lovely to spend time speaking with her about life in Manchester and her medical training without the rest of her family listening in.

When Anna brought a tray early the next morning, she noticed a brightness about Sybil's expression that she had missed recently. Lady Sybil had always been Anna's favorite – the nicest sister, by far – and Anna had thought for weeks over anything she might do to help lift the black mood that hung heavily around her ladyship. Anna knew how much Lady Sybil looked forward to seeing her cousin, but she was also certain that the impending drive with Branson was a major contributor to Lady Sybil's mood, but she certainly wasn't going to say anything that might darken it.

"You look lovely, milady," Anna said, smiling.

"I've had William take your trunk downstairs and I believe you've got everything you need now. I do hope your visit with Mrs. Crawley does your spirits good."

"Thank you, Anna. I_ am_ looking forward to it!"

Downstairs was quiet, but Carson stood waiting in the hall and walked with her the few steps to the waiting car.

"Have a fine visit, Lady Sybil," Carson offered as he saw her into the car.

"Please offer Mrs. Crawley my regards."

As Branson settled into the driver's seat, Carson bid them both a safe journey before striding back inside the great house.

"I must have been the last to learn that I would be traveling to York, Branson," Sybil said with a laugh as she sank into her seat and they started toward the main road.

"Yes, milady, I think you might be right. I believe it was meant as a happy surprise – something to cheer you."

"Oh, and it has. Terribly."

Yes, Sybil, thought, this was the best surprise she had received in many years. She was greatly looking forward to her visit with Cousin Isobel, and was no less content for Branson's company either. As he drove, she began to tell him then more about this distant cousin who had been thrust so unexpectedly into their lives. Branson did not know Mrs. Crawley well, and as Sybil spoke this middle-aged woman came alive to him and he almost felt he was meeting her for the first time. He had not known that Isobel had saved the life of a local farmer, for example, and Sybil relayed the story of Mr. Drake's dropsy and Isobel's cure with the pride of a mother. She spoke openly, in a tone that conveyed respect, Branson noticed, something you rarely – or never – heard when an aristocrat spoke of anyone not also addressed with a title. They did not speak of the war at all, but shared stories of their childhoods, compared London to Dublin, and even New York, and discussed the books they read.

Sybil was especially fond of _Little Women_ and did a fine job retelling much of the story, complete with different voices for each of the March sisters. She would make a fine teacher, Branson thought. Or mother. Branson suggested she might like James Joyce, perhaps the book _Dubliners_ that had been published just last year, he offered. As he described it and she agreed eagerly that she would like to read this book, he couldn't help but reach for the copy on the seat next to him and hand it to her in a gesture not unlike his initial offering of pamphlets on women's suffrage two years before. The book had not been easy to come by and he certainly couldn't find a second copy, so although he'd always planned it as a gift for her, he couldn't help but read it before he offered it to her. He had intended to give it to her on the return to Downton, but as she clutched it to her and beamed, he knew he'd made the right decision just now.

"Thank you, Branson. Really, though, you shouldn't have." A beat later she added, "Oh, it's lovely, it is."

"It's a small gift, milady. I know how you like to read and I thought you might like something by an Irishman. Being English and all I thought you might need proof that we can write just as well," he teased.

She laughed. "I look forward to reading it and after I do, we must discuss it. I'm sure no one else I know has read this book. You have read it, haven't you?"

"I have, milady, and I did hope you would like to discuss it with me. I hope you won't mind, but I've marked a few passages for you that I thought you might especially enjoy."

As she looked through the pages now, Sybil saw where he had done just that. Here and there his handwriting filled a margin, pointing her to a sentence or two, or briefly explaining something he thought he wouldn't understand – and would want to know more about before they had a chance to discuss it.

Soon they arrived in front of the modest house where Isobel had taken rooms while in York for the month. As he helped her from the car she appeared nearly to be her old self and he was glad of whatever part he had played in this transformation.

Sybil's visit with Cousin Isobel was as good for her as everyone had hoped. They discussed Isobel's nursing, what news of Matthew she received from the front, life at Downton, and any number of other topics. Sybil had even hinted at her friendship with Branson, mentioning the map he had purchased in Ripon where they marked the names of places like Artois and Isonzo, as well as the copy of the _Dubliners_ he had offered her "recently." Isobel was worried about Sybil after receiving Cora's response and was glad for her to have a friend to help her navigate this terrible war. She had seen and heard far stranger things than a lady befriending a chauffeur. In any case, the girl's mood had been far lighter than she had expected given Cora's somewhat anguished reply to her invitation and felt anything and anyone who cheered her to be welcome.

Sybil was disappointed Sunday morning that her visit was at an end so quickly, even if she was looking forward to the return drive with Branson. Not accustomed to embracing, she nevertheless hugged Isobel tightly as he pulled the car in front of the house. It was a gray morning with a light rain falling, but she resolved that her mood would not match the weather.

"Thank you, Isobel, really. I mean it."

"You'll be alright, Sybil, and remember that you can always write to me yourself. I don't often receive a letter from Matthew, and I'm always happy for whatever news the post brings me of my friends from before the war."

They embraced again quickly and she slid into the car. Sybil heard Isobel's voice speak in a low tone to Branson, something too quiet for her to hear, and they both smiled. Yes, it had been nice to admit her friendship to someone, even if it was just Cousin Isobel.

"How was your visit, milady?" Branson asked as they set out toward Downton.

"I had a very fine visit, and I'm so grateful to you for driving me here. It's not a short drive."

"No, but I'm happy to do anything for a friend."

She smiled at that last comment, had heard the catch in his voice as he said it, acknowledging aloud for the first time that she was really and truly his friend.

"Thank you, Branson."

She was quiet for a minute before she decided to tell him the advice her cousin had imparted.

"Cousin Isobel gave me some very wise advice. She told me that I won't end the war by losing my spirit, nor even shorten it by a day. When there is so much darkness in the world, she said, I must try to bring a bit of light into it and not add to the darkness."

"I think that's very wise advice, milady. I couldn't agree more."

Branson was relieved that someone had finally told Sybil what he had bitten back for weeks. Yes, she was his friend, and she often sought his opinions and counsel, but as anyone in service could tell you, it was important to know when to hold back unbidden advice.

The rest of the journey passed happily as she shared the details of her visit and then lapsed into memories of earlier visits to York. She liked the city very much and thought York Minster every bit as grand as Westminster Abbey, while the surrounding countryside, she argued, was more beautiful than the area surrounding London. When she had finished, he good-naturedly countered that neither had anything on Dublin. In some ways it was a repeat of their conversation on the way to York, but livelier this time, as Sybil seemed to have recovered much of her fire.

"I do wish I could see Dublin, Branson, for you speak of it so often."

"Perhaps one day you shall. One never knows what can happen in life."

Given the near state of war in Ireland now, he doubted very much that an English Lady would, should even, travel to Dublin anytime soon, but they could both dream, couldn't they?

Arriving back at Downton, there no was mistaking how tightly Sybil squeezed Branson's hand as he helped her from the car. Had Cora not been so focused on the transformed expression Sybil wore – even her color looked healthier than when she had left – she might have raised an eyebrow in disapproval. Anna, too, was struck by the changes in her mistress, and missed this small gesture. Sybil thought perhaps Carson had not, but she couldn't be sure and anyway he wouldn't scold her, not in this mood at least.

"Sybil, darling, you look wonderful. It seems that the visit with Cousin Isobel agreed with you nicely."

"Oh, mama, but it did! Thank you so much for arranging it. It was lovely to spend the weekend with her."

Sybil used the word just to see if her mother would cringe as her grandmother had the first time Matthew uttered it over the dinner table. Whatever her natural reaction, Cora showed no reaction, but resolved to try to take a kinder view toward this woman. Cousin Isobel could be abrasive, but clearly her heart was in the right place and Cora had to admit that two days in Isobel's company had done for Sybil what two months in her own company had not.

"You must remember to write her a proper thank you, Sybil. I'll send my own by tomorrow's post – Branson can take it into Ripon for me – and I'd like to include yours as well. Write it this afternoon and take it to him to post along with mine."

"Yes, mama, I shall do so."

With that, Sybil entered the hall and made her way upstairs happier than she had been in many months.


	6. Chapter 6

The fall had been especially cool and wet. Sybil had made quick work of _Dubliners _and was now looking forward to Christmas. Even though it would not be as grand as the pre-war Christmases, it was still a festive time, complete with a trimmed tree in the main hall. Most days she was able to maintain a brighter mood, though the war was never too far from her thoughts. The worst were the mornings that the post bore especially difficult news – one more young man of her circle killed or wounded. Most had died in the active battle, but Sybil now knew two who were killed not by the cold, hard metal of a bullet, but by one of the many diseases that ravaged the British army. As difficult as the days following this news inevitable were, she was grateful for the ever greater freedoms that she had enjoyed since returning from York. It was as if her family did not want to risk plunging her back into the darkness and was willing to accept this new behavior so long as she did not wear such a long face in the drawing room or at the dining table.

The estate comprised over 1,000 acres and Sybil came to know them better than ever that fall, traipsing through woods, along the river, and more than once even walking alone to Ripon, something her parents never would have allowed previously. She ordered the car at least once a week and had taken to having Branson drive nowhere in particular and also visited him in the garage most weeks. He never knew when she might visit and, not wanting to miss her, took to spending more and more of his time there. The car had never looked or sounded better; even his Lordship had complimented Branson on the care he showed it. Branson tried to interest Sybil in the driving lessons that Edith enjoyed so much (even if her progress was painfully slow), but Sybil was uninterested, saying she preferred to spend their time sharing memories, discussing literature, current events, and even the war.

The nearer Christmas approached, the more this grandest of holidays consumed their conversations. She told him of the "the game," the Crawley family's most cherished of Christmas traditions and described the great hunts of previous years. He told her stories of Irish Christmas, the quiet beauty of Midnight Mass, the old Gaelic carols sung at home, far from the watchful eyes and ears of the British.

Two days before Christmas, Branson returned to the garage after returning the Dowager Countess to Dowager House to find Sybil sitting on a workbench, waiting. Mary and Edith had had a tremendous argument during dinner, the Dowager Countess intervened, noting that just because there was a war on didn't mean everyone should forget their manners, and the evening had devolved, then ended, quickly. The entire dinner had amused Sybil greatly; she was even more pleased that the entire family had retired to bed early and she had slipped, unnoticed to the garage. The evening was cold and fat snowflakes had begun falling as she entered the garage. Even bundled against the cold, Sybil was glad she hadn't needed to wait too long before hearing the gravel crunch under the weight of the car.

"Milady, it's late – and cold. What are you doing here?" Branson asked as soon as he had parked the car.

"Dinner ended early and the rest went to bed in a terrible humor, so I thought I'd come see you." She told him about Mary and Edith's argument, mischief in her eyes.

"I thought the Dowager Countess was in an especially poor mood," Branson replied, silently thinking, "and so this great family is just like all the rest – although I suppose I already knew as much."

They were both quiet for a moment watching the flakes settle in a light layer just outside the garage. Branson was about to speak when Sybil rose from the bench and took a step in his direction.

"Happy Christmas, Branson!" she beamed, holding a small package toward him.

Branson was rarely speechless, but this gesture was so unexpected that he could only reach out and take the package from her hand. He unwrapped it carefully, aware that she was watching him expectantly. Inside he found three handkerchiefs of the finest material, each delicately embroidered with the initials "TB."

"I stitched them myself," Sybil offered proudly, before he could say anything.

"Thank you, milady. You've done a fine job. But how did you know my first initial?"

He wracked his brain trying to think when, if, he might have told her his first name. He was certain he hadn't – he wasn't even certain his Lordship knew that his name was Tom. Surely she hadn't asked Mr. Carson, the only person he is certain knows his name.

"Don't be silly, _Tom,_" she said cheerfully. "I thought perhaps I would find it in the mail. I spent two weeks intercepting the mail before William or Carson could get to it, but of course you never got any letters when I was looking. Next I thought perhaps I'd find it in the library register. Now, you only sign 'Branson,' but the first weeks you were here you wrote your full name: Tom Branson."

She was laughing by the time she finished and he was thoroughly impressed. He made a mental note to never underestimate her resourcefulness or determination. Less consciously he was also aware that hearing her speak his name, his real name, stirred something deep within him and he wished he could ask her to call him Tom instead of Branson. This he could not do, however, no matter their friendship, a thought that pierced him briefly before he reconnected with this most unexpected and, well, magical moment.

"Wait here, milady; I've something for you as well."

He disappeared inside his cottage and reappeared with one arm behind his back.

"I've not had time to wrap it, so you must close your eyes and hold out your hands."

Sybil did as instructed and felt the weight and shape of a book placed gently into her upturned palms. When she opened her eyes she saw he had given her a small book with a blue fabric cover. Inside he had written simply, "Lady Sybil: Happy Christmas, 1915." Turning the pages she was face-to-face to Dublin, Donegal, Cork, and the many other places in Ireland he described so vividly over the course of their friendship. The images were beautiful, breathtaking, and it was her turn to be speechless as she studied each photograph intently. The last page was an illustration, a rough sketch really, and she looked up quizzically.

"It's a book that many Irishman pack among their possessions when they leave Ireland. I didn't, but I did ask a friend for a copy recently. Of course, he thought it was for me, but I always knew it wasn't, milady. The last page, though, the illustration, is my mother's home, where I grew up. That one I drew."

"Branson, it's wonderful. Thank you."

All her life she was accustomed to receiving the finest frocks, jewels, and leather-bound books that that Grantham fortune – and many others – could buy. Yet this simple, hand stitched, lightly covered book gave her a joy that she had never known upon receiving any of these grander gifts.

"Happy Christmas, Lady Sybil. Perhaps you had best get back inside before you get too cold."

Before she went to sleep that night she opened it again, tracing the inscription with her index finger and then trying to commit each image to memory. Growing up, she had seen Mary often tuck books or letters beneath her mattress and wondered what could be so special that she needed to keep anything in this way. She did not think of Mary as she tucked the book carefully under her mattress, and drifted into the deepest sleep she had known in many days. The last image she saw before the black of sleep enveloped her was the sketch of the Branson family home.

Anna normally washed the sheets on Saturday. This week, though, Christmas Day was Saturday, so she planned to do the beds Friday instead. As she deftly pulled the sheets from Lady Sybil's bed, a small book fell to the floor. Lady Mary had been hiding books under the mattress since before Anna arrived at Downton, but she had never known Lady Sybil to do such a thing. It was not her place to question the ways of her mistresses, but as she picked it up to replace it, the cover fell open. Reading the inscription, Anna knew immediately where – who – the book had come from.

Folding the new sheets onto the bed, Anna struggled with what to do. Should she tell Mrs. Hughes? No, she decided. She wasn't meant to see it and, besides, Lady Sybil had been so happy lately, it was Christmas, and Mrs. Hughes had enough on her mind these days with Gwen's replacement having left that fall and needing to find a new girl yet again. And, of course, while it was certainly her place to give Branson away, it would never be her place to give away Lady Sybil. It was so complicated when people did not keep with their own kind as they were ought to do. She replaced the book with a sigh, then quietly left the room and closed the door behind her.

Nothing else Sybil received that year compared to the small book from Branson. How had he managed it? She was glad she had stitched the handkerchiefs herself; she would have felt terrible if her own gift seemed any less heartfelt than his. She wished to talked to him about it, learn more about the pictures, and especially tell him how much it truly meant to her. Yet this week was impossible. The last week of the year was always a busy one and 1915 was no exception. Her Aunt Rosamond visiting, her grandmother was a constant presence, and old friends of her father filled the guest rooms and dining table. The final days of the year slowly ticked by. As Sybil dressed for the last that New Year's Eve, she couldn't help thinking that the war raged on, the losses were mounting terribly, and 1916 promised to bring more of the same. At least she had Branson's friendship to look forward to.


	7. Chapter 7

The first days of 1916 brought Sybil a succession of letters, each announcing the death of yet one more young man she had known in what she now thought of as her previous life. In the year and half since the war began, the list of friends, acquaintances and, yes, suitors, who had met death in fields, trenches, and hospitals far from home had grown until she could no longer remember exactly who was still among the living. Each day it became harder to remember – and heed – Isobel's sage advice. Thoughts of the war threatened to overwhelm her most days. Only at the servants' ball, where she had laughed with Daisy and Anna, sipped three cups of Mrs. Patmore's punch, and danced – first with Carson, then William and finally, wonderfully, with Branson – had thoughts of the war fallen away.

Yes, the ball. As it began her father bade everyone to "enjoy the music as never before" for it would be the last, he announced until the war ended, one more piece of life sacrificed to the war. No one, including Lord Grantham now believed that the war would end quickly and everyone at Downton Abbey, as across England, began 1916 steeled for another terrible year. Sybil closed her eyes and smiled to herself as she remembered the ball. Specifically, she wanted to remember her two dances with Branson. Each time he had approached her after dancing in turn with her mother, Mary, and Edith, but she was certain he'd looked happier dancing with her, and had drawn her a bit closer to him, than he had the others. As the memories of their dances filled every recess of her mind, she felt the familiar knot deep in her stomach. It had been there while they danced, too, and she had spent much of the evening trying to settle herself down. Why was she so flustered? She felt a strong urge to cough rising from deep in her chest and tried to push it aside, to focus on the hazy images of the servants' ball floating in her mind instead.

In the days after that ball she contracted a bad cold, which had given way in succession to a sinus infection, bronchitis, and a deep, lingering cough. Even now, many weeks later, Sybil was still fighting the rattling cough that had developed just as her chest and sinuses finally cleared. The coughing fits that wracked her body were terrifying, for her and for those who heard them. Her entire chest ached following each one and the ribs on her left side had been sore since one especially bad episode. She had winced so badly when Anna laced her corset almost two weeks ago that her mother abandoned the project and allowed Sybil to go without a corset. Normally Sybil would have been pleased for this victory, but the persistent soreness constrained her pleasure tremendously.

In this condition, a drive to Ripon, or anywhere else, was well out of the question, and she missed her conversations with Branson. Sybil made every effort to speak with Anna as she had with Gwen, but came quickly to realize that she might depend on Anna as an ally, but not quite as a friend. Three times Branson had brought Dr. Clarkson to Downton Abbey; the last time he had not been able to help himself and had commented, as he returned Clarkson to the hospital, "It seems serious, Dr. Clarkson. Do you expect to return to Downton Abbey to check on Lady Sybil again soon?"

Branson was relieved when the doctor demurred and indicated that Sybil's illness was not too serious, but only of a long duration. Branson had enough on his mind these days, what with the deteriorating situation in Ireland, without having to worry about whether Lady Sybil was going to recover from whatever ailed her. He had seen her only twice since the ball, each time reading on one of the benches when she had convinced her mother she needed fresh air. Most recently he had seen her last week, wrapped in a blanket, paler and thinner than usual. All of the servants knew Lady Sybil was ill and just the night before Anna mentioned the rattling cough that would not give Lady Sybil peace, even and especially at night. Still, Branson had been unprepared for its strength and was alarmed when he heard it. No one else was around and so he approached the bench to check on her.

"Milady, are you quite alright?" he asked her, worried.

Another bout of coughing ensued before she could respond.

"This cough is so dreadful, Branson. Yet, I feel better and stronger each day."

"I'm glad to hear it. Is there anything I can get you?"

She hesitated.

"Milady, if I can get you anything, please say so."

"Would you mind terribly asking Mrs. Patmore or Daisy for a cup of tea? I know it would help."

"Certainly, milady. I'll fetch a cup for you and bring it here."

Branson was relieved that Daisy was alone in the kitchen when he entered the kitchen. He told her quickly of Lady Sybil's request and Daisy complied while tut-tutting over her.

"Poor Lady Sybil. Anna says she's been coughing for weeks. I don't know why she's got to sit outside."

Branson shrugged his shoulders and thanked Daisy for her help. He didn't understand why she wanted to sit outside either. The bite had gone out of winter, but the warmth of spring hadn't fully arrived and, despite her assurances that she was on the road to health, anyone could hear or see that it was a long and bumpy road.

"Thank you, Branson," Sybil said, gratefully taking the cup of tea from Branson and bringing it to her lips.

"It's lucky you found me here, Branson. I couldn't bear another afternoon inside, but I should have thought to ask Anna for tea before she returned inside."

A quiet moment passed before Sybil turned to him again and asked, "How have you been?"

"I'm well, milady," he said simply, if not entirely honestly. In truth, he missed her terribly and was constantly worried about what was happening in Ireland.

"I have missed our talks, Branson. I have so much I want to share with you," a deep, rattling cough wracked her then. Her entire body shook and she clutched her ribcage as though trying to physically hold herself together.

Branson looked away, unable to watch her pain and hopeful that Dr. Clarkson was correct that it was nothing serious. Sybil herself had said she was better. How bad had it been?

"...but not today," she gasped. "I think you should help me inside, please."

"Yes, milady."

He offered his arm and steadied her as she rose, still wincing. He carried her book and teacup in his free hand, arranged the blanket gently around her shoulders and helped her toward the house. Carson met them in the main hall with a furrowed brow and downturned expression. As Sybil bade them both good day and slowly climbed the stairs, Branson explained to Mr. Carson how he had heard Lady Sybil coughing so terribly that he had fetched the cup of tea and assisted her back to the house. Carson turned toward Sybil, whom he offered a stern look, before turning back to Branson to offer grateful approval for the chauffeur's thinking and care.

"I think she'll not be leaving this house again soon if her mother or any of the staff has anything to say about it," Carson offered tersely before dismissing Branson back to the monotony of the garage.

Indeed, Sybil did not leave the house again soon, not until her cough had completely disappeared, by which time the flowers of spring abounded, the battle at Verdun had been raging for weeks, the battle at Kut was just beginning, and the servants' ball was some three months in the past. Still, the letters came for Sybil. Would the men she knew never cease to die? Again she began to despair as she had in London.

Easter was late in 1916; had it fallen earlier that year she likely would have been too ill to attend the Easter services, where she prayed as never in her life. Dear God, Sybil prayed, be merciful. Show us the way and make it end. Please, God, I cannot bear this any longer. Her prayers were despairing that year, save for her gratitude to God for Branson's constant friendship. Do not let the war carry him away from Dowton, from me, some small and quiet part of her prayed. She knew not from whence the prayer sprung, only that once it entered her mind it was as pure and true as any prayer she had ever offered up to her Heavenly Father.

If the mails brought bad news to Sybil that spring, they brought worse news to Branson. In early May he received a hurriedly written letter from his mother. The Easter Rising had been vicious and bloody. The English had brought in troops from Belfast and elsewhere, amassing some 16,000 troops to crush the rebellion. Hundreds had been killed and thousands wounded. Most had been shot, but many had been bayoneted in acts of sheer brutality by the English soldiers. Worse, his own cousin was among the dead, shot walking down King Street for "probably" being a rebel. The words on the page were splotched; Branson imagined his mother's tears falling as she penned this hardest of letters. He added his own tears to hers, the anger bubbling and boiling inside him until he felt he might explode.

For the first time in weeks, he heard Lady Sybil enter the garage and call to him. He was in no mood to speak to any of them, not even Lady Sybil, and he remained inside his cottage until she left. As soon as she left Branson regretted his silence, for she was the one constant in his world, but his feelings that afternoon – pain and anger, heartbreak – were too powerful to share even with her.

It would be another week before she returned again. Each was in a black mood that day and for the first time, their conversation was uneasy. He did not wish to speak of Ireland and she deflected all questions about the illnesses that had kept her confined to the house for the better part of the year thus far. Even talk of the war provided no relief as she mentioned the death of a friend at Verdun. When she spoke, her tone was different than usual.

"He always made me laugh just so, and I always felt that when I married I hoped it would be to a man such as him. Perhaps I had even hoped it would be to him."

Branson could not remember what had come over him but he spoke to her then more harshly than he ever had. Thinking about it, he realized, he had probably spoken to her more harshly than anyone had ever spoken to Lady Sybil, save possibly Lord Grantham in his anger following the count.

"I cannot share your grief for one soldier any more than for another. Every soldier at the front made some young lady laugh once upon a time."

She was silent for a moment, and then replied, "Yes, Branson, you may be correct. I am just so very tired of this war and of the feeling that every man I've ever known lies buried in an unmarked grave deep in the French countryside."

"Your losses are no greater than anyone else's, milady. In fact, they're probably less," his furious words tumbled forth before he could consider them.

She looked to him as she never had before, shocked, stung. He saw her blink back tears, inhale deeply, and exhale slowly before responding. An eternity seemed to pass before she rendered a verdict on his cutting remarks.

"I'm sorry, Branson, I never meant to burden you."

As he contemplated his response she turned on her heels and fled.

He had not meant it, any of it, and deeply, deeply regretted the way he spoke to her. Branson cared for Lady Sybil more deeply than he cared for any other human being on earth and inexplicably he had inflicted great pain on her. He had missed her for the months she had been ill and it had been foolish and rash, to say nothing of cruel, to speak to her so harshly just now. He must make this right and soon.

The envelope that bore Sybil's name the next morning was thinner than most she received. Opening it, she found only one sheet of paper enclosed, instead of the usual three or four. The paper was thinner, too, of the kind she knew enlisted men to use, as opposed to the heavier, finer paper that officers preferred. Carefully she unfolded it and began to smile as she read the words in front of her.

_Lady Sybil,_

_My words yesterday were unkind – and untrue. You and your cares are never a burden. I do not know what came over me, but I apologize for speaking to you in such a way. I hope you will continue to be my friend._

_T. Branson_

"Good news, for a change this morning, Sybil?" her mother inquired gently upon seeing her daughter's happy expression.

"Yes, mama, I have good news for once. I think I'd like to take the car to Ripon. May I?"

"Of course, my dear."

"Carson, please send for Branson. Please tell him Lady Sybil would like to drive to Ripon…" Cora looked to Sybil for the appointed hour.

"At once, mama."

"At once, Carson. She would like to leave at once."

"Yes, milady," Carson said. "I shall send for Branson at once."


	8. Chapter 8

The summer of 1916 passed quickly. Sybil and Branson continued their easy friendship. The battle at Verdun raged on, the British and German navies engaged in the great battle of the Jutland, and in July the opening shots were fired at Somme. In Ireland, too, a war of sorts raged. Branson did not tell Sybil that his cousin had been killed; they discussed Ireland only in the abstract – or in the past, in stories. In August, Mary traveled alone of the three Crawley sisters to London, where she spent a month in the company of Lady Rosamund. Edith continued her driving lessons, finally making a degree of progress and leading Branson to believe she might yet master the motor. Sybil was pleased with herself that she even managed a picnic that August, during the few days that her parents were also in London.

As summer turned to fall, however, the old feelings of anguish and despondency crept back into Sybil until she felt she could no longer bear it. How fortunate that Cousin Isobel had been visiting Downton the morning of her deepest despair and suggested the training course in York. She felt the need to be of use so badly she ached; this physical pain began to ease as soon as Isobel uttered the words. Although it felt to Sybil like an eternity, within a week her mother had agreed that she could enroll. When Cora imparted this news over the breakfast table that crisp autumn morning, Sybil felt the weight rise from chest, so great was relief. Barely able to contain her joy, Sybil had raced to the garage to share her news with Branson.

"Branson! Branson!" she called.

"Yes, milady, I'm just here," came his gentle lilt from the back of the garage.

"I'm to be a nurse. A proper nurse. Cousin Isobel suggested it and just this morning my mother has agreed. The course will last for two months and when it's finished I'll be a volunteer nurse for the British army. Branson, can you believe it? Finally, I'll be doing something useful, something to help the men, help the war effort. It's such great news, isn't it?" her words poured forth in an excited tone that made him smile.

Two months? Lady Sybil would be in York for two months? Branson did not want to believe this. Before he could respond, she continued.

"When I saw the nurses in London, I never imagined I could join them. I still can't believe that mama and papa have agreed for me to enter the training course. I am so very, very happy."

With the last word she leaned forward, sweeping him into a celebration like the one they shared with Gwen when she got the secretary job. Had either of them had the presence of mind to do so, they would have considered how very different today's circumstances were from that day. Then, the world stretched before Gwen, whose job was purely for her own betterment. Today, beset by years of war, Sybil would train for a job to help the staggering numbers of wounded and dying men whose bodies and spirits had been shredded by the hard realities of war.

"Fantastic news. I'm happy for you." He smiled at her, his elation at their embrace mixing with his disappointment that she would be away for so long – and over Christmas, no less.

"Of course, Cousin Isobel has suggested I have to learn a few things before I leave. Making a bed, for example, and some basic cooking and cleaning. Really, though, I can't wait."

Branson wanted to laugh at this: the idea of any woman not knowing how to make a bed was preposterous to him and he was stunned to hear Lady Sybil would _learn_ how to do this. On the other hand, he admired her eagerness and, well, better late than never.

"And when will your course begin?"

"I'm to start my training in York in just two weeks' time. I have so much to learn before then. I've asked Anna to teach me the cleaning bits, and of course Mrs. Patmore and Daisy will help me with my cooking."

"Best of luck, milady."

"I'm not leaving yet, Branson."

"No, but I thought you might need a bit of luck with all you've to learn," he grinned impishly.

"Yes, well, you may be right. Daisy said she could help me as soon as breakfast was cleared, so I best be off. Good day, Branson. And thank you."

"Good day, milady."

Branson stood shaking his head as he watched her leave. She was constantly surprising him. Would the wonders of Lady Sybil never cease?

Lady Sybil was the talk of the table at dinner in the servant's hall that night.

"She tries so hard," Daisy was saying, defending Sybil's first failed attempts as Mrs. Patmore shared Lady Sybil's misadventures in the kitchen with the rest of the staff.

"A sow's ear can try to be a silk purse, but that doesn't make it one," Mrs. Patmore responded.

"Mrs. Patmore." Mr. Carson's tone and arched eyebrows indicated the conversation was at its end.

The last person Branson expected to see the next morning when he entered the kitchen for a new cup of tea was Lady Sybil. She was there, though, in fine spirits, just pulling a beautiful cake from the oven, smiling as broadly as he had ever seen. So she was serious then, was she?

When she came to visit him that evening, she entered the garage with one hand behind her back.

"I have a surprise for you, Branson," she said a bit shyly.

As she said it she drew her arm from behind her back and revealed a small plate covered gently with a napkin.

"Remove the napkin," she commanded.

He did so and revealed a silver fork and small slice of cake.

"It's the cake I made this morning. I thought you might like to try it. To taste my progress."

He ate it slowly; if he was honest, he was surprised that it was delicious. He had not tasted cake in many months and it had been much longer since he had tasted any this sweet or moist. The flavors transported him back to Ireland and when he spoke it was to offer his highest praise.

"Your cake is as good as any I've tasted, milady. It reminds me of the cake my mother made before I left Ireland."

"Was it really good, Branson, or are you just pretending for me? Mama and Papa praised it, but Mary did make a bit of face."

"Then Lady Mary is a fool! Excuse me for saying, but your cake is delicious. Thank you for sharing."

She told him then of her preparations for York, how she was both excited and nervous.

"I've never been away from home, Branson, not really."

"Not like you," she added quietly.

"You'll be fine, milady. And it's only two months."

Only two months. This is what Branson tried to remind himself regularly now, when she spoke to him of her fears, when Daisy cheered her progress in the kitchen, or when Anna and Mrs. Hughes discussed the packing and other preparations. Only two months.

He told her then of the first time he left home, when he packed his bags for his first job as a chauffeur.

"I wasn't scared to leave, milady, because I knew I could always come home. I went with my mother's love and her blessing. I knew it would work out but also, a think it helped that I also knew in the furthest reaches of my mind, that if it didn't work out, I could come home and she would greet me with open arms."

"You were very lucky, Branson. I think sometimes that Papa, especially, would be only too glad if it didn't work out and I had to return home, beaten."

"Then you shan't let that happen, milday. But remember, not everyone thinks like his Lordship."

"Do you think I'll be a good nurse, Branson?"

"I think you'll be a fine nurse. If I were wounded, I'm sure I'd want to be in your care."

She was quiet then, looking intently into his eyes, as if trying to discern his thoughts.

"I've got to go do a bit of packing. Goodness knows what I'll find when I open my trunks if I let mother handle everything!" She laughed.

"I'm glad you enjoyed the cake. And you won't find me in the kitchen again before I leave. Daisy has pronounced my lessons finished now that I've made the cake. Tea, sandwiches, eggs, and cake. That should do for my training."

"I'm sure it will, milady. Good night."

"Good night, Branson." She looked over her shoulder as she left and gave him a smile that was more eyes than mouth. Yes, he would miss her.

Anna and her mother handled most of her packing, with input from Mary and Edith and last of all, she felt, herself. In the end they had packed more clothes than she felt she would need, but it was a small price to pay for her first taste of real freedom – and work. The night before leaving she packed the small bag that contained her most personal effects. Into she placed a favorite night shirt, a small stuffed bear that her had been a gift from her grandmother, a photograph of her family taken last Christmas, two novels, and lastly the small, blue book inscribed, _"Lady Sybil: Happy Christmas, 1915."_ Before adding that last to her bag she opened it to where a small envelope lay between the pages. Opening the envelope she removed the thin sheet of paper and let her gaze rest on a single line. "_I hope you will continue to be my friend."_ She closed her eyes for a moment, and allowed herself to picture him as he so often was in her presence: laughing, full of fun, with a glint in his eyes and his mouth turned up into a smile. She could picture his broad shoulders encased in the deep green wool of his jacket and the cap perched at a jaunty angle on his head. Oh God, she would miss him.

When she opened her eyes Anna stood before her. Anna was not especially quiet when she entered Lady Sybil's room; she had knocked gently and hearing no response had entered as usual. Sybil did not even hear the door, and was sitting at the edge of her bed with her eyes closed when Anna entered. At first Anna was concerned that Lady Sybil was regretting her trip to York – or worse – but when she saw the expression on her face and the blue book open in her lap she knew Sybil's mind wasn't on York.

"Milady, I've come to help you change for bed," Anna said, gently.

Sybil startled and her eyes snapped open. Quickly she fumbled with the letter and the book, eventually placing the letter in the envelope, the envelope in the book, and the book in the bag. While she did this, Anna fussed with the curtains and fire. As she watched Lady Sybil's trembling fingers struggle to place the paper into its envelope, Anna wondered if it was possible that she was the only person living or working at Downton Abbey who saw what was happening. There's none so blind as those that won't see, O'Brien was fond of saying, and Anna wondered now if the others – Mrs. Hughes, Daisy, Lady Grantham, Carson, even Lord Grantham – simply would not see. She had vacillated between believing the fault lay with Lady Sybil and believing it lay with Branson, but the body of evidence before her suggested their relationship was not sustained singly by one or the other, but was mutually nurtured.

"Will you write to me, Anna, when I'm in York? To tell me the news from home?"

Lady Sybil's words pulled Anna from her thoughts.

"You'll only be gone two months, milady, and I'm sure your mothers and sisters will write often."

"I know that, Anna, only I've never been away from home by myself before and any letters will be my links with home while I'm away."

"We'll see, milady, but I'll certainly try."

"Would you ask the others to write, too? Mrs. Hughes and Carson and, well, anyone who might have a a few spare minutes to write me of home?"

Anna was confident that there was only one person whose letters Lady Sybil hoped to receive and it wasn't Mrs. Hughes or Carson. She had known her mistresses for many years, understood what made them tick and, generally, how their hearts and minds worked. This request only confirmed for her what she'd been thinking a minute ago. Yes, Anna thought, Lady Sybil wants letters from Mr. Branson or my name isn't Anna Smith.

"It's a lot of work to keep a big house like this running, milady, but I'll certainly tell everyone downstairs that you're keen for any news of home."

"Thank you, Anna."

The next day, Sybil left for York. She was grateful for Branson's conversation as they drove away from home, for the closer York drew the more Sybil's excitement was replaced by true nerves. She tried not to focus on the two months ahead and instead regaled Branson with stories of failed cooking projects and her difficulty learning to make a bed. He did not tell her, of course, that these were the stories that had enlivened the servants' hall for the past two weeks.

Suddenly, the drive was over and they arrived at the training college. As he carried her bags toward the nurses' quarters, she'd exclaimed that she left something in the car and ran back before he could offer to retrieve it. Checking to see that he wasn't looking, she'd then dropped an envelope onto his seat.

And then they'd said goodbye. Sybil had felt her heart sink as Branson confessed his feelings for her. It wasn't that she hadn't known what he was about to say, or even, deep down, that she didn't want to hear him say these things. She knew. She couldn't say when she first realized how he felt about her – and she him – but she had known for many months, perhaps since last Christmas, or was it even earlier? No, his confession just made everything so much more complicated. Unspoken, they could continue as they had been, pretending they were only friends. Now that he had spoken these words, how would they ever go back? Still, she had not expected him to threaten to leave. Anything but that. What would she do if he left Downton? No, he must stay; the way he looked at her when they parted, she felt certain that he would but, oh, this was not what she wanted. She pulled her mind from their awkward parting and hoped that he would find the note she had left on the driver's seat that morning. Its contents paled in comparison to his own confession, but she hoped he would know what it had cost her to leave it just the same and that, if he wavered in his resolve to remain at Downton, her note might just convince him to stay.

Branson felt numb as he returned to the car for the return trip to Downton. True, she hadn't rejected him outright, but she certainly hadn't encouraged him either. What had he been thinking? No, he knew what he had been thinking, the question was, was he crazy? Had he only imagined that she felt toward him the way he felt toward her? The visits to the garage, the drives in the Yorkshire countryside, sneaking out of the house to bring him a slice of her first cake last week? No, he hadn't imagined it; he had only imagined that she would be as ready to reject the rules, their world, really, as he was. No, he hadn't imagined it; he recognized the look in her eyes when he'd said he would hand in his notice and be gone when she returned. Anger, fear, disappointment, sadness. All unspoken, yet written in her eyes plain as the day for him to read. Perhaps Mrs. Hughes was right and he should have listened more carefully to her counsel.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he nearly didn't see the small envelope sitting on the driver's seat. It bore no name, but clearly it was meant for him. Suddenly, he remembered Lady Sybil exclaiming over a forgotten item and racing back to the car as he stood, holding her suitcases. He smiled and opened it, trepidation and anticipation mixing in equal measure in his heart.

_Dear Branson,_

_As you read this, I'm sure we've only just parted, but also that I miss you already. You have been my greatest friend since the war began and for that I'd like to thank you. It is your friendship that has given me the courage to pursue my dreams, starting with the nursing training here in York. I do not know how my life would be different if Papa had not hired you when Mr. Taylor retired, but I know that it _would_ be different, and I can only imagine it would be less interesting and less fulfilling. I hope you'll write to me here at the college and keep me informed of life at Downton. I look forward to the end of my training, when I will see you come for me in Papa's old Renault and we can talk again, freely and in person._

_Your friend,_

_Sybil Crawley_

He reread it again, slowly, fully absorbing the words in front of him. No, she had not confessed her undying love for him, and it may not have cost her all she had to say these things as it had him, but it had cost her something, a great something indeed. As he folded the letter back into its envelope and tucked it into his pocket, he began to smile. He would be okay. _They_ would be okay. It had been nearly two and half years since he had wrapped her fingers between his on the eve of war. What was two months?


End file.
